


Strung up, strung out, for your love

by AnOddSock



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blood and Injury, Blood and Torture, Broken Bones, Dehydration, Evil Plans, Hand Jobs, Hurt Sam Winchester, Interrogation, M/M, Pain, Shapeshifting, Starvation, Threats of Violence, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-12
Updated: 2019-10-12
Packaged: 2020-12-13 16:24:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21000650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnOddSock/pseuds/AnOddSock
Summary: How do you withstand the best torturer Alistair ever taught? By remembering who you're protecting, that's how.A.k.a that one that I wrote to accompany a hurt!Sam art





	Strung up, strung out, for your love

**Author's Note:**

> Instead of writing what I planned to write I wrote this instead. And instead of editing it I decided to go the route of instant validation so, tadaaa 
> 
> Hurt!Sam for whoever wished for it *kisses* [based on this](https://oddsocksandstuff.tumblr.com/post/188202184151/day-7-battered-and-bound) artwork that I did for Suptober, it was crying out for an explanation. Also put the art in the fic so be warned, slightly nsfw.
> 
> Also, this is my 50th work?! WOO

Sam’s very, very sure that there’s serious damage being done to his body here.

He breathes, and it hurts. He moves, and it’s agony. He holds still, and it throbs.

He’s almost glad he can’t see it. The bruises, the blood he feels dripping from his face and drying on his chest and shoulders. But then, he also can’t see what’s coming; and that’s a torment all its own.

He could stand up on his toes, extend his neck and grasp for the fabric tied around his head. He knows it’s possible because he did it, more than once. Ripped off the blindfold and tried to think his way out, tried to see an opening or a way to freedom.

The punishment that came when he was found looking at his surroundings was something he was only prepared to relive a second time. The idea of a third round… he can’t do it. Not yet. Maybe if he breathes some more…

Maybe then.

His head hangs down, neck too tired to hold it up. He’s fairly sure he’s alone now, but he’s been wrong before. Once he heard the door close and, thinking he was alone, let himself sob, and rage, and rattle the chains and then slump. Only to be rewarded by a slow clap and a whoop and hands grabbing his face. _ “What a show, very dramatic. Want to do a repeat performance?” _

He shudders at the memory, and holds himself together with every tiny shred of self control he has left. The only weakness he allows now is the shaking, trembling muscles that he can’t help anyway.

How long has he been strung up like this? Not long enough for his legs to give out… yet. When that happens he’s dropped to the floor like a sack — once his shoulders are close to popping from the strain, anyway — and he’s left in a heap until his body recovers enough to be yanked back upright. 

The questions they’re asking are starting to not make sense. He’s sure they did, at the beginning, when he knew why he wasn’t answering. He’s sure he knows the things they want answering and he’s holding out anyway. But he’s confused now.

_ “Where’s your brother?” _ They ask, over and over. And he knows they want to kill Dean, so he can’t answer.

But he also knows one of them sounds like Dean, and all he can think is _ here, you’re here. _

They hurt him when he answers like that. They hurt him when he doesn’t answer at all.

He hurts.

He will be hurt.

He will hold out.

He has to hold out, if he wants to survive.

The door slams and he startles, and then convulses in the pain that rocks through his body at the movement. 

Footsteps. A hand caressing his face. A whimper. Rough fingers tangle into his hair and yank his head back. He gasps, and there’s a bottle at his lips. Water pours into his mouth and he gulps gratefully, knowing he’ll have to piss later and resigning himself to the stink of it; for now he just wants to ease his raw throat.

The bottle disappears and he chases it with a gold fishing mouth, hungry for more.

“Tsk, that's it, you’ve had your rations.”

“Food?” he croaks. 

“Mmm, not today, I don’t think.”

He groans, twisting, turning away.

“How’s our guest?” Asks the other voice, the familiar voice. The one he doesn't like to think about. The not-Dean. Dean must be the one with the water bottle. No, wait, that’s not Dean either. Dean is missing, they want to find Dean.

His head swims and he licks at dry lips.

“Ungrateful, such a little whining thing.”

There’s a snort and Sam breathes. He just breathes.

“We could give him something proper to whine about,” sneers the voice. _ The _ voice _ . _ That’s _ his own voice. _

_ Shapeshifters_, he remembers.

They have him, they have Dean’s DNA too -- enough that they could both shift. And now they are the Winchester’s, and they want to stay that way.

_ They want to kill us_, he remembers, _ so no one will question them. _ But they can’t kill him until he tells them where Dean is, and they can’t kill Dean until Sam gives him up, so he has to stay silent.

This creature has Dean’s memories, and Dean knows how to torture. Sam doesn't think about it much, usually; it's all he can think about these days.

There’s a hand on his jeans, pushing. He swings in his manacles as the touch jolts his body. And then the button pops and the material slides down his legs, and they rip them away.

“No!” he yells.

“Yes, Sammy. Yes, we're trying something new.”

A cold, callous hand touches his cock and begins to stroke. He won’t get hard, not for a long, long time, his body is too weak.

“Gonna sing for us?”

“Please, that’s not gonna work…”

“Isn’t it though? Pain isn’t doing it, maybe you need the incentive of something else.”

“You know how to get us to stop, tell us what we want to know.”

“Where’s big brother?”

“Home, he’s home, he’s at home. He’s looking for you,” Sam spits.

“That’s not an answer. Where is home?”

The hand squeezes his cock, and then a tongue licks it and he yells a strange gurgling sound. He bucks. He can’t shake them off.

A sharp flash of pain strikes across his back. A sting, and a thwack, and the cut open feeling it leaves behind.

The hand holding his cock is gentle in comparison. It caresses and it soothes.

A blunt force rams into his already broken ribs and he swims away from consciousness with a pull of pain that's like the tide.

Pain. Pleasure. Pain. Stimulation. Pain. Raw, animal need. Pain. Retreat. Pain. Denied. Pain. Pleasure, pleasure, pleasure.

They go, and they go, and they don’t stop until he’s coming weakly and his legs are giving out. They don’t let him down, they let his shoulders and his wrists carry his weight and he whines a continuous noise in the back of his throat.

“Hey, Sam,” Dean’s voice whispers in his ear, “you ready to talk yet?”

Another hand smears the blood from his mouth and roughly grabs his chin. “Or… we could just start all over?”

* * *

Later. Days pass. More days, more pain. Tar like and struggling. Later there's a sound like fireworks in the snow. Little pops in his dull senses.

Grunts and moans of pain he's got used to hearing all the time, but they're not from his mouth. They're not made with his vocal chords.

"Sammy," the voice says. The Dean voice.

"No," he whispers, barely a scrape of sound. "No."

"I'm here, it's really me now." he doesn't know what that means anymore. Everyone is real, the voice is real, the voice is Dean and the voice brings pain.

But then the black is removed from his eyes and he stutters in the burning brightness of it. Dean's worried face looms out the blurry surroundings.

"Hey, Sam, you ready to go home?"

**Author's Note:**

> Thoughts? Thinks? Loves? Likes?
> 
> Dean's going to have to do a lot of looking after Sam to make up for this horror....
> 
> Comments and kudos always appreciated!


End file.
